


not what you expected

by Ceminar



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Mentions of filled quadrants, Mildly Dubious Consent, POV First Person, Quadrant Confusion, Quadrant Vacillation, helping hand, i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-23
Updated: 2014-06-23
Packaged: 2018-02-05 21:16:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1832563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceminar/pseuds/Ceminar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You would say fuck yourself for being such a romantic, but that's what you're about to do, isn't it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	not what you expected

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not even going to lie. I finished this at like... 5:30 in the morning. It was supposed to be fluff. It really was. Well... Kind of fluff. And I am so, so (not) sorry. This was kind of a gift to an artist on tumblr by the name of Tofu7 (go check their blog yo. Good art, funny tags, hella NSFW though), and it was based around a picture they did. How the hell I got THIS from a simple amazing picture is beyond me but fuck it. Here you go.
> 
> Tags are hard, and quadrants are harder.

This isn't exactly how you expected this shit to go. Not by a long shot. He looked like him. Only taller. Older. Quiet honestly, he looked more sane, too, more put together. More right in the fucking pan. You met him on accident, if you could call it that. Fucking Kankri, giving you one of his sermons again. You zone out, trying not to drool after giving up on escaping, but notice a shadow just behind him. Familiar hair, familiar horns. You got so excited at first, thinking that it was him. That maybe, maybe you could talk to him again. But as he slips into the light, you realize it isn't him. It must be his ancestor or dancestor or whatever-the-fuck-cestor they are and he's... Mimicking... Kankri? You turned your attention to him, watching as he mirrors the other almost perfectly, standing silently behind him now. And you can't help but smile But to laugh. You figure it must be a regular thing because Kankri pauses for a moment, looking as if he just knows what going on behind him, but his current topic is much more important. After a moment, the Makara stops, holds a finger to his lips as if to tell you to be silent, and you do, if only out of curiosity. He just reached forward and poked your whatever-the-fuck-cestor in the sides with those long, bony fingers of his and with a shriek, he goes down. Before you can start to laugh, and you want to so badly, he pokes you in the chest, then points behind you, a sign for you to run. And you know why. You feel a chill as your fellow redblood starts to get to his feet, a dark aura radiating from him. You bolt. And that was your first meeting with the Mime.

From there, it was all fucking gumdrops and sugarcanes. He had a moirail, and you respected that. No quadrant infidelities on your watch, right? But it was nice to have someone listen to you. You may have had a pale crush, but you kept those feelings to yourself. And, as was fair, everything you told him, he told you in return, though he didn't speak. He would write in a little notebook for you, would teach you what those weird things he did with his hands meant until soon, you could read them just as easily as words on paper. Maybe it was more than just a pale crush. Maybe you felt envious of their session's Captor. 

You would never tell him though, but... You feel like he knows. He shows you pity, but not enough to threaten his flush partner. Hell, you don't even think it's a ping on her radar. But she seems to encourage you two spending time together, at least from what you can gather of her rapid fire signing and her screeching when you meet.

His signing, you understand. Hers, you can barely. It seems he slows down, just for you.

And it makes your bloodpusher ache.

Him being so nice to you. So much like the moirail you wished for. That you know in your heart you deserve. But he and Mituna are par even with Nepeta and Equius. His Matespritship is flawless. There was no room for you there. Still, you act like you aren't craving more, a pap, something. You act like you don't want to feel those gloved hands against you, caressing your face, running though your hair. Those wired shut lips against your neck, against your own. Like the thought of being near him after all this time doesn't make your pusher hammer like it's trying to break out of your body and into his hands.

Wait.

Fuck.

No. Nonono. This isn't supposed to fucking happen to you. This is the oldest line in all the books. The movies. Pale crush turn confusing red-pale-mix? Fuck if yo hadn't already walked that line with Gamzee. Now you were walking it with Kurloz, too? And they weren't even... Fuck.

You can't face him, you decide. You avoid him. Back to not sleeping. You don't even try closing your eyes, because you can't help but to see his face, that smile he turns on others, thinking about it being directed to you. How he caresses his moirail. How he treats his matesprit. You can't help but imagine, in your private moments, how he is with them in their own. You find yourself petting the side of your face, trying to imagine his touch. It would feel colder against your skin, wouldn't it? You find the thought comforting, though you shouldn't. You shouldn't be having these thoughts at all. But you do. And this, this shadow of pale affection you're showing yourself just makes you feel so pathetic. You pity yourself for this. You wish he would pity you the same. You feel like you hate yourself, but that isn't anything new. Maybe you can make him see you as a rival?

No. That just sounds desperate. Still, now you have another problem. You feel pressure building between your legs. Your ministrations have certainly started something, haven't they? You groan, hating yourself more.

One last time, you tell yourself.

One last time, you lie to yourself.

You relax on your pile as best you can, feeling the corners of your trashy trollmance novels digging into you as you close your eyes, take a breath, and start to imagine that damn Makara.

You would say fuck yourself for being such a romantic, but that's what you're about to do, isn't it?

How would it even start this time? You're already hard. But you don't even let yourself think about that right now, as difficult as that may be. Instead, you imagine him over top of you, looking at you with those whited out eyes, and you could swear you still saw hints of purple in them. Of course he wouldn't say anything, he couldn't. And that's... That's oddly okay with you. You feel like words would ruin that thing you two don't have. Instead, he leaned down, brushed his lips against the corner of yours, avoiding a kiss and trailing them down your jaw, your neck, his fingers running through your hair and lightly gripping your horn to pull your head back so he can reach your now exposed throat.

Would those wires feel rough? Or were they actually soft threads? You shiver at the prospect. Either would feel good to you, you reckon. Just so long as he's touching you. As long as he's against you like this.

What next? He continues to coat your neck in butterfly kisses. That hand in your hair, teasing your tiny horns gently tugs your head to the side so he can travel up to your ear, where you feel a cold breath ghost over it and if makes you shudder again. That was new. You want even more though, whimper quietly for it. You swear you hear a chuckle, but you don't bring yourself to open your eyes. You can't bare the thought of coming back to the reality that this isn't happening. That he isn't really there.

Instead, you feel his hand, the soft material of his glove slowly pushing up your shirt, caressing your side. You can still feel the coolness of his skin through it and it feel amazing against your own flushed skin. You spread your legs, so it's easier for him to hover over you like this and you're almost melting. You've never felt like this before. It feels almost too real.

You feel a knee press against your bonebulge and you start writhing under the weight of your imagined partner, trying to grind against it to get more friction. To get off. You see that smile spread over his face as he reaches lower, rubbing you through the material of your pants, teasing you. Does he want you to beg? That slight turn of his lips, the barest twitch as if he read your mind gives you your answer and you do, a single please that sounds like it should be coming from one of those movies the Strider kid shows you to freak you out. But that must have been what he wanted because down go your pants, mercifully quick compared to the teasing just before. Your member is aching, bright red with your blood color and need and the almost adoring way he looks at it just makes it worse as a tinted bead of material drips onto your stomach from it.

Gently, he caresses you, rubbing against your swollen sack, kneading it before wrapping his fingers around you. He doesn't bother to take off his gloves and you almost want to bite him for it. As good as the material feels, he would kill to have his actual hands on him, with nothing between them. Flesh to flesh. But your mind is fogged as he squeezes you, starts to pump, to get more of that candy red dripping from you, which he rubs into your head with his thumb, using it to make his strokes smoother and your digging your hands into the pile to find purchase because it;s too much. He's only touching you, not even bare handed, and it's still too much for your inexperienced body to handle. Soon, you arch off your pile, crying out wordlessly as you cum, spurts of your own material coating your stomach and still he holds you like that, strokes you, rubs at your bulge, your horns as you ride it out.

When you finally finish, you're panting. You feel him let go of your horns finally, feel him pat your side as he cleans you up somehow, tucks you back into your underwear, your pants. He pulls your shirt down, and you see that same smile he always turns to you on his face as he pats you between the horns. No kiss. No gentle caress goodbye. Just a pat and a wave.

A note in that familiar handwriting was left next to you when you finally opened your eyes and initially you panic. It was him. He saw you. Or worse, he was... You swallow and read it, feeling your worry start to fade and you can't help but smile a little when you finish, and reread it against to be certain. Sure, you're confused as fuck. But that makes you feel a bit better.

“NEXT TIME MY LOUD MOUTHED BROTHER UP AND NEEDS A MOTHERFUCKING HAND ALL HE GOTTA DO IS ASK. : o)”

No heart. No diamond. Just his familiar smilie face for a signature. No infractions. No problems. Just a friend helping another friend.

You could live with that.


End file.
